Short Story: No More Beauty

Sea before us, for all its turbulence, anger, and disdain, finally abated by time itself. Rivalry and the comfort of the cease of battle merging into the melancholy of all afterward events. Dew, of the trepidation found this night covering grass and warrior alike, drops of the tumultuous sea lightly falling over the sanguine river of burgundy below the grayed out sky as wave after wave it clashes upon this end of sorts. Thunderous affair overhead as the rumble of low pitch sounds clash against higher ones, on a coming and going of waves both above as below, making the felt sensation of the moving affair felt more and stronger with every sound.

Prevailing scent of perseverance, agony, disdain, and hope, battered to silence underneath, while above, light flashes completely unhinged of the sounds. Chorus of drizzle, sensation, sound, and lights in a spectacle for the senses. 

Dirt rivers amidst the burgundy, beginning to form a tear between wall and wall, allowing water to pass slowly as if mourning the calamity through which it travels. Salacious affair between blood, suckling the confused dirt it covers with its crimson joy, fed with the irony that is this product of avarice.  Covered flower petals with colors never intended by nature to drip to the ground from their fragrance covered soft skins with parapets of burgundy the emissary of all dull smells now produced.

End, suffering supreme, end now and thus with this end never reproduce the disarray which of my tales is its core. Entice no more the thinking to the thoughtless affair of bringing such futility to the shores of this sea, to fill the rain with its martyrdom, prevent odorous winds from ever procuring from this place again, and with every drop of burgundy take beauty to its own demise.

Sun, shine away the still and dry colors which like a mantle cover what was yesterday a beautiful field of golden glow and late goldenrod, let the mountain asper and daffodil die as they must, but repopulate the area once more with the beauty them imparted on this landscape which once held beauty, but now only the vein of humanity. 

Spume rise no more from your inherent coming and going, be swept no more and disappear. Return, oh sight of nature, alas thrive and once more let your emerald, pearl, blond, chocolate, and sapphire shades reign over this region as clouds should above and not the tempest which upon us abates the very sight into the very inhospitable landscape that now exists.

Essay: I am not a hypocrite

A notion exists as the idea that I am something, can be something, or that through seeking something, something else entirely may become. This is somehow obfuscated in the rationale we employ when thinking outside of the box when either, wanting to believe in something, or no longer wanting to. Where hypocrisy is concerned in relation to the mentioned, we want to rise above any notion that is perceived as beneath us and we do so with great desire and force of will. Yet, I must wonder if that is enough for that something else to become.

Long ago I moved away from folklore and costumes. As most adults, I too have come to understand things in my own way, applied my experience and schooling to those things, and came up with a view and understanding of those things that is unique to me. Is that bad? Why am I not a hypocrite when it comes to costumes?

In my culture, I was born to Puertorrican parents, it is typical to give a kiss and hug, to a person when they are family, a friend, or a mixture of the two. Greetings basically extend beyond a handshake to putting your face against that of another and mimic the kissing sound. Generally this is done whether you care about the person or not, you just go along with the costume and hypocritically convey the motions of public standards upon this person whom in any other circumstance you would probably avoid. 

I don’t do that. I just happened to have developed some social fears which completely usurped my ability to create a fantasy where one shouldn’t exist. I don’t know, call me crazy, but if I don’t like someone I tell them in the best way possible -usually in extreme fashion or rather very straight forward- and generally that is more than enough to have a person stop talking to me, because who enjoys the truth on their face when they too are the subject of avoidance of said truth merely because no one is brave enough to speak of it in the person’s face; the public generally has no issues going behind people’s back and smearing their names and persona all over the proverbial moron they really believe the person to be, that is to say, as long as it is done without the person’s knowledge. 

This has gotten me in quite a bit of trouble over the years. I mean, I don’t believe people are morons, or even ignorant, however unenlightened they may appear to be, because of my beliefs. I have a simple rule: do not judge, no matter what. There are a number of factors which are beyond our reach -to any and all of us- when we look at another person. Starting from the present and going backwards, the kind of mood they are presently in, what health issues they may be undergoing, therapy -whether physical or mental-, the good or bad day they’ve had, family or friend issues they are immediately involved in/with, whether the week’s goals have been accomplished or not, if the month has gone as planned, how much school they have attended and what accolades they have earned, their personal take on an event or thing that may be happening, and so on and so much more. Due to all those unknowns it would be inappropriate and borderline irresponsible to call a person ignorant merely because they believe something you don’t. Yet, that being the case, those who opt to call others or judge others as ignorant end up in a very interesting loop where both parties say the same about the other; after all you think you know this and that, but you cannot see eye-to-eye with the other person who also knows what they know.

Another costume is to ask family members for a blessing upon first contact with them and before leaving their presence, not in question form, but in a statement. It is done as such because the costume is so inherent/ingrained that it is expected rather than sought. This, sadly, takes me to religion. I am agnostic, more towards atheist, but not my immediate family. Mom and dad, like theirs before them, are Catholic. The Roman Catholic type that goes to church not because it is the right thing to do, not because they are good people, not because they carry the word of their god in their hearts, and certainly not because they follow the teachings and exercise it in their day-to-day lives, but merely because it is tradition and thus expected. I however, don’t believe in much or any of that. I understand that people err, I think heavily on how we wish we were a bit more perfect and could somehow avoid all the issue of living which is making those mistakes, and ultimately understand the need to blame someone else for issues which you are not yet, or may never be ready to accept as being your own. I get it, mostly because through personal experience I have done the same in many of those situations myself. Yet, I opted to leave hypocrisy behind and apply what I learned to lead the best life all those teachings brought about. Does that mean I have fashioned my own beliefs, systems, and even costumes? Not necessarily. 

A good human, arguably, is someone who is able to see uncertainty in front of them, take that uncertainty and ponder on it, look for more information about it, seek out gurus on the subjects and get taught by its teachers, and then make an informed decision on how to most appropriately view that uncertainty. Does that mean the person will make a good choice or in fact be or become a good human? No, not really. Like me, a sufferer of depression, post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, someone who has seen and heard hallucinations, someone who has been a part of those Catholic movements and groups and have gone the extra mile and done some strenuous walks with the groups as well as other very taxing rituals, someone whose wife miscarried several times, someone who was declined entrance to the United States Marine Corps several times yet served in the Army for 4 years in 2 wars, someone married 20 years with a teenage son, someone who leaves their house no more than 30 times a years and most are for doctor appointments...  but like I was about to mention, like me there are many with their own problems and past, with their own tough decisions to make.  Some whom are single parents with ample responsibilities and find time to be involved in many different affairs, many whose lives are looked upon and talked about as being perfectly normal, or even above average, those unlucky enough to have witnessed an event and now lead different lives through repatriation or being elsewhere, and so many others who find the notion of being a good human something somewhat surreal.

We are legion, in the sense that those of us who suffer the faculty that is living through our inept or limited understanding of other things and could almost never reach the pinnacle of anything… yes our numbers are vast. Just to throw a number at the circumstance, there are roughly 7.7 billion humans on Earth (and I make the distinction expecting that in a few decades there may be some on the Moon, Mars, and perhaps elsewhere) of whom about 30% play a video game of sorts, whether the games are accessed on a desktop computer, console, mobile device, tablet, laptop, cloud, or other electronic device.  The notion that almost 50% of the world is involved with the sport of soccer be it through personal taste, have played the game, know friends or family that play, or just enjoy the pastime of watching a good game is also quite a statement. We are similar in many other ways too, we want the best for our respective families, our search to better ourselves is seemingly endless, we gravitate more towards others whose ideas mirror our own, and so on. We are nations/legion of individuals seeking an unknown, together, the fact that the unknown itself varies is seemingly inconsequential when we understand that we all seek it.

Yet, whether similar, different, or individual we seem to all have a hand in hypocrisy. If you believe that hypocrisy is saying, doing, mimicking, or thinking of something that you don’t believe in for the purpose of doing it well, then you fall in line with the rest of us who practice it daily. I don’t mean to open my eyes in the morning any more than I plan how long the next breath I take will be, nor the rhythm to which my heart palpitations will go today; perhaps to a waltz, or rap depending on your likings. I certainly do not mean to believe that I am right or have better footing on a subject than someone else, especially if I don’t know that person.  Yet, after first hearing a rendition of an idea we almost immediately fall on one side of it, the you believe it or not sides of it, and of course the more complex the item the more sides it can possibly have, thus further dividing the belief and its supporters into subset after subset. 

Why then do I believe not to be a hypocrite? I kiss and hug my sister, as culture demands, because I love her. On the other hand, out of respect and not personal choice, I do the same were I to see my father. I respect the man very much like I respect others whose views I cannot tolerate. Yet, I fail to remove myself from hypocrisy’s vile intent, because the river of turbulence that may be summoned were I to follow instinct and desire over cultural expectations would be almost impossible to traverse. I am no better than the person, whom like I, chooses the hypocrite way of going about something in order to avoid the unknown. It seems like an inherent means which is deployed upon contact with a situation whose impact will be so incredible and yet incomprehensible, that nature takes over, and like a heartbeat, deploys the modus operandi that will best steer us through incoming rapids without our knowledge or consent. This is, I infer/posit a defense mechanism more than it is the fallacy of humanity to be unique and form their own opinion and life outside of the herd that is culture. 

Thus, as shown I am as fallible as the sheep that goes to the river for a drink not knowing of the rise of the same, a current whose force impending comes to disrupt matters in seconds, leaving nothing but dismay and questions behind. It appears that despite cultural uprooting, the natural divergence between progeny and parent can be detrimental for the progression of the self where the wrong stimulation perpetuates cultural norms that perhaps ought to be evolving with the natural flow of world/surrounding events. The belief that we are different merely because we have applied some fact to our ideas does not seem like enough of a leap into a new reality bereft of the things we imply have been left behind, yet can never be replaced or removed. Whether the matter is religion, a cultural belief, folklore, or otherwise it appears that a closer examination of the self may reveal some truths that are lurking behind false beliefs we concoct in order to feel safe in the environment we reside in. When confronted by the many realities that are being alive, aging, and everything that brings, we realize that not only are we closer to those beliefs that we attempt to usurp than we imagined, but that we have inadvertently used them as part of the model or canon which we follow in our new-modeled lives. The matter that is nature versus nurture in an environment where we seek betterment seems to be trumped by nature when matters are trivial but highly valued by us for personal reasons. It seems that while I attempt to escape hypocrisy through the reworking of ideas, thoughts, and teachings, it all somehow permeates in the background to all those things. As much as I want to believe that I am in control, I is not just the me who writes, the me who thinks, or the me who acts, but the me inside, the me whose actions are driven by everything and not just beliefs or wants. Then, the something else that prevails is the one that has always existed, but has somehow grown to some extent into something we end of calling our own, however much it is filled with things beyond our wants, needs, or desires. The hypocrisy of it all is believing that I am not a hypocrite. 

We Are All Masochists

I am a perfectionist. Everything bothers me because it is somehow not right, not fully, or not all the way. Nothing is where I left it. What I had mentioned bothered me went without notice again today as I found it in disarray. Where is the love and care of others who say care or love me, that worry and have/feel concern and yet when these things I dislike are present it is all forgotten somehow? The funny thing is, and it has to be very funny because I am the only idiot who is somehow perturbed by it all, that no one else sees it. It is as if I somehow made it and make it all up.

Things like let’s keep the home picked up, you know, if you have something on your hands, put it where it belongs once you’re done with it, dispose of it if it is trash, place it back on its receptacle if reusable, and etcetera. The washed dishes resting wet on the counter as if they couldn’t be dried and placed back in the cupboard. The asthma pump tube, the one that delivers the air from the machine to the mask lying on the floor as if the cats didn’t already tear up a lot of other things that are plastic which were lying on the floor in the past and we all addressed in conversation like mature adults, yet there it lies.

To err is as much a quality of humanity as is that of glass being fragile, and it is understandable, but every single time? I feel as if I was the safety officer at a plant and as I entered saw that the entrance had iced over throughout the night, reported it to the people responsible for keeping the area safe and clean, and at the end of the day I fell on the ice which had not been touched; yet somehow it is still my fault for coming in the next morning, having a meeting about it, and everyone in the crew responsible for taking care of the ice being utterly upset at me for bringing it up. How dare I, right?

Am I as much to blame for these things? I have thought about that. I try my best to ensure that I am the prime example of how things ought to be accomplished.  Is my example followed? Not at all. It all falls on deaf ears, blind eyes, and unmovable hands. Do I get upset? Every single time. Is what I am upset about addressed? Not at all.  However, I do get a lot bewildered looks very often, in the form of “I wonder why he is upset” or my favorite, “what did I do now”. And while those are in the forms of looks, which I cannot describe in words, the words do follow after a few days of me having to put up with this madness, because it is madness isn’t it? I am going to therapy because of this anxiety I have all the time and in the background of it all, while I am at the therapist, the home is being slowly put in the disarray that landed me in therapy so that I have more to say next week… I imagine that is the reason, otherwise they are trying their best to make me insane and just get me out of the house by way of a sanitorium. 

After seven cats, 2 of them diseased, you’d think that someone in the family would notice that the cats eat, sleep, urinate and defecate, drink water, and require human hands for all those things to happen. For instance, if the cat has been sleeping in point A of the house for the past month, and is now sleeping in point B for the following month, and one more time switches from B, now to C, never returning to the previous comfortable spot in which they slept/rested back at A or B, then let us humans see if there is anything wrong with point A, just because we care about the inhabitants of the home if nothing else. But no, the spots remains full of shed hair, hairballs, and abandoned because of how uncomfortable and unbearable it is to lay there now that it is no longer clean until I go and take care of it. Even at times when the duty of cleaning the automatic cat bathroom (Cat Litter III) an event that encompasses, 

1. ensuring that the room/floor is cleaned, 
2. their water is filled, 
3. their dry-food dispenser full, 
4. the automatic pet-bathroom cleaned,
5. and the same having enough cat-litter inside to the fillable brim -not necessarily in that order- 

what gets done appears to me to depend greatly on the day it was done, the mood of the person that did it was in, etcetera, that is what determines how many of the tasks I mentioned get accomplished; somethingI take care of regardless of how wonderful or otherwise I feel.

You know, I don’t like the lights on. I suffer from cluster-migraines. Very often, as I come in a room, whoever is in it will do me the favor of turning the lights off or lowering the intensity. I am thankful as I suffer from photophobia due to the cluster-migraines. But, why is it, in a perfectly sunny day that all the lights are on in the kitchen, the window curtains and front door are opened all the way allowing the sun to pour through them, the under-the-counter lights shining over the marble countertops which reflects light, the light of the coffee maker shining it’s colors about its water dispenser further helping the overhead lights to shine throughout, the refrigerator having its own sets of lights which come on when opened, and whatever other device whether a cellphone, or tablet on, all of which have their own light sources, are always on? You know what is hilarious to all this in a perfectly sarcastic way, that when someone leaves the lights on in the living room, that pisses off my other half… the person who in the first place had all the lights on in the perfectly well-lit kitchen. It is beyond incomprehensible, what it is in fact is looney! Yet, I am the one that complains about everything, perhaps because of my depression, or post traumatic stress disorder, or because I just like to whine… regrettably, there can be no other possible sane solution or answer.

I remember my other half saying to me, “please don’t say the word relax to me, as I discovered in a psychology cession that it is a trigger to my anxiety”. To my surprise, being the perfectionist person that I am, I stopped saying the word. Why? Because my other half is sensitive to it and the last thing I want to do to this person I love is be insensitive, deaf, or blind to the issues which could be prevented so that her life is as best as I can help it be. Yet, that is not the treatment I see as being rewarded to me.

It is alright I suppose, as we are bound for imperfection in a life lived in a human carcass. No problem. I have to remind myself that it is not that I have had 20 years of marriage and experience to help me with the life I live today, but that life is in fact very unpredictable and the past is as much the past for people who have died as much as it is for love felt, nice things performed, and etcetera. At the end of the day it must all amount to nothing, because in the same way that I do not know the names of my great grandparents, no one will know of the anxieties that living bring about in my life, the terror that my life brings to those that I surround, and the fallacy that is the belief that we or anything can get better with time; for as I have learned, time only exists in people’s brains, reality is full of nothing but daily unknowns. 

Yes, I will continue to keep the house in order, I will mention the things that I feel are out of place, I will resist the urge to get angry when I am looked upon with disbelief as I open my mouth to utter these nonsense words that are nothing but the overly repeated nonsense of yesterdays past, I will deal with the cats as they are my responsibility as they are everyone else’s, I will ponder over the lights being on all the time or the lights needing to be off in some places but not others, and I will continue to use my view of life starting every day over again instead of it being the culmination of events leading to today as I ponder heavily on how I loved yesterday because I wanted to. I love today because I feel it, should tomorrow come to pass, I feel that love can continue, not because I want to, but perhaps because underneath it all we are all masochists.